


Carousel of Fun

by PeterPanic (K9Lasko)



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Commitment, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/PeterPanic
Summary: It was Thursday night, which in the Shawn-and-Lassie-lovebirds-forever abode — Shawn’s term, not Lassiter’s (over his dead body) — meant it was Shawn’s turn to cook dinner.AKA -- Shassie + commitment = arghh (mostly it's Shawn making that noise)
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

It was Thursday night, which in the Shawn-and-Lassie-lovebirds-forever abode — Shawn’s term, not Lassiter’s (over his dead body) — meant it was Shawn’s turn to cook dinner. 

Yes, cook. Not simply heat up. Not simply order from the taco truck down the way or from the indecently good curry hole-in-the-wall four blocks up from the boardwalk. Cook. Dinner. From food. Using knives and pots and pans and such. Using stuff in the fridge or the freezer or the pantry. Stuff they bought at the Smart & Final or Ralph’s or the little farmer’s market on Saturday mornings. 

Carlton had put his fashionable-yet-practical loafer-clad foot down about the take-out last month. They were going to “eat healthy” and they were going to “save money” while doing it. 

(Carlton had actually said that while jabbing at Shawn’s stomach. Low blow, dude.)

So, again, it was Shawn’s turn to “cook” which in turn meant that Carlton made sure not to turn up too hungry or expecting too much. And he also made sure to claim an extra helping from the communal doughnut box at the station to put himself in a good mood.

Shawn would argue that raiding doughnut boxes was defeating the purpose of the healthy-cook-at-home scheme, but Carlton would argue that he was, at least, saving money. (What he really wanted to argue was that Shawn’s cooking was nearly inedible on a good day, but, shockingly, he never had the heart to say that to the man’s adorable, stupid face.)

Carlton pulled the car up to the closed garage door and went through his mental check-list. No appetite. Check. Patience. Check. There was something he was forgetting.

“Lassie-face!” Shawn yelled from the kitchen at the sound of the side door slamming shut. “You’re home early!”

Already, Carlton could smell hard-won defeat in the air. It smelt like burning rubber. Or something. Slowly, he went through his self-soothing after-work ritual. He put his bag and keys and wallet in their designated spaces. He shrugged out of his suit jacket. He unstrapped his gun and secured it in the safe, along with his badge. He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and took off his tie.

He ignored the random crap scattered across the sofa and on coffee table. Papers from the printer, sticky-notes, coloured pencils, crinkled newspapers, a few SBPD files (unauthorised use, probably). It even extended to the floor. Apparently, somebody was “busy” with “something”. Carlton was a neat and tidy man by nature, but Shawn was pure chaos. And while Shawn had worked hard to be more cognisant of his unintended messes (there were a lot of checklists in use and a lot of groaning about said checklists and even more accusations from Shawn, usually along the lines of “ugh, are you and my dad coming up with this shit together, now?”), it was all a work in progress.

Carlton could accept that. For now.

“Okay!” said Shawn in a voice that was entirely too loud and too excited. He emerged from the kitchen with a frenetic look in his eye.

Carlton smiled at him, warm and rare, and Shawn paused, seeming to calm down at the drop of a hat. But then he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

Shawn blinked. “Ah!” he said. “Well, good news. I burnt dinner.”

“That’s not good news,” Carlton replied. Predictable news, he thought, but still not good.

“I burnt most of the dinner,” Shawn amended. “But not all. Mostly!” His smile turned a little lop-sided. “Here. Sit down.” He grabbed Carlton by his elbows and pushed him to sit at the dining table. It was one of those obligatory pieces of furniture they rarely used. They had bought it only because they thought they ought to. The space “needed it.” Or at least that’s what Gus said, during that one (fateful) trip to Ikea. (“It’s a dining area, Shawn. And a dining area needs a dining table.”) Shawn only went for the Swedish meatballs and he admitted that to anybody within earshot who would listen.

For his part tonight, in the here and the now, Carlton allowed himself to be placed in the chair. The table, oddly, had been cleared of the usual crap they kept stacked on top of it. “What’s the occasion?” Carlton asked.

“I hope you’re hungry,” said Shawn, mysteriously. 

“I’m not,” came Carlton’s blunt reply. “The stink coming from the kitchen confirmed that.”

“Oh. Well. I hope you’re not hungry,” repeated Shawn with one added word. He swept out of the room and into the kitchen, before sashaying back into the room and out of the kitchen. He set a champagne flute down in front of Carlton and poured him a glass.

Carlton’s brow raised. He watched how the bubbles surged to the rim of the glass but did not overflow, no matter how aggressively he poured. Shawn must’ve learnt that particular skill during at least one of his fifty-seven jobs.

“Prosecco, m’Lassy,” declared Shawn. He also poured some for himself. He set the bottle down. “And now, for the main event. Dinner.” He disappeared again.

Carlton sighed. He looked over at the television, which was on but the volume set low. The Channel 3 news was almost over and they were doing a rehash of the weather. He realised now that he was home earlier than usual. Maybe he’d been looking forward to this expected mess, just a little bit. Having someone to come home to… it was… nice?

Suddenly Shawn had returned. He set down a plate of steaming something in front of him. It was steaming and it was something and Carlton had no other explanation. And then Shawn sat down at the opposite end of the table and rested his chin on a palm, head tilted just so, and the warm glow from the dimmed overhead light fixture hit his face just so…

Carlton looked away and instead considered what was on the plate.

Shawn read his mind. (Psychic, remember?) “Grilled pineapple… slice.” Singular, apparently. “Bon appetit.” 

“It’s very… cooked,” Carlton remarked.

“Well, of course. The rules were we had to ‘cook’ dinner.”

“I mean, it’s black.”

“Blackened pineapple, sure.” Shawn sipped his prosecco before he dared to cautiously poke at his own portion with a fork. “It’s a delicacy in some countries.”

“Oh really. Which?”

“Hawaii?” Shawn ventured.

“Hawaii isn’t a country.”

“Huh.” Shawn poked at it once again. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it, however.

And neither could Carlton. “You burnt the rest of it, didn’t you?” 

“The rest of what?” Shawn played dumb. For such an atypically intelligent being, he could certainly play dumb extremely well.

“Dinner.”

“Oh. There was something that might have been chicken, or pork, or… All meat starts to look the same in a charred state. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“It actually is here and there,” Carlton argued. Arguing with Shawn was a circular and nonsensical endeavour — more game than actual fight. He was surprised how quickly he’d picked up the habit.

Shawn grinned. He said nothing. Only grinned. And damnit, if it wasn’t a dangerous display of… illegal cuteness. 

Fuck it. Carlton was finished. He would always fall for that stupid grin. He scowled. “I swear you ruin more meals than we manage to eat, Spencer.”

“Well, whose fault is that, Lassitudinal?”

“Nice try. You’re not getting out of your duties.”

Shawn repeated, “Duties.” The grin turned downright goofy. 

“Obligations,” Carlton amended.

At Carlton’s frown, Shawn cleared his throat and managed to appear somewhat serious. It failed, spectacularly. 

“C’mon. You know me, Carly-ton,” said Shawn. And then it was off to the races as he rambled on, “I can’t cook my way out of a grocery sack. If it weren’t for you and the gods of take-out and my dad, I would’ve starved to death ages ago. But despite all that, I wouldn’t miss these dinner nights for anything, Lassie. This is my night to shine, man! I mean, at this point, we have it all planned out… Monday is your night and you’re like Wolfgang Puck on steroids, Tuesday is taco taco taco night because tacos three times is better than once, Wednesday is Gus night and he’d kill me if I ever forgot and I’d kill him if he ever forgot and it’s your night to go do your Lassie thing whatever that is — I promised I’d never interfere, Thursday is my night — obviously I’m me and I’m awesome, Friday is date night or sometimes free lone wolf night, Saturdays are for Jules or sometimes my dad or sometimes the fish or sometimes a weird combination of all of the above and Gus of course, Sundays are for food shopping and—“ He didn’t recognise the look now stuck on Carlton’s face and it made him pause. “What?”

Carlton simply stared at him, as if shocked in some weird and abstract way. Maybe it was the prosecco. It went straight to his head because his stomach had nothing in it but two Krispy Kreme doughnuts. His chest clenched uncomfortably. Not in a heart attack way, but in a— In a way he could not entirely define.

Shawn was right. They did have their lives relatively worked out. And it was comfortable if not at all predictable as Shawn seemed to think it was. And it was always (well, mostly) fun. Shawn made this fun. He made Carlton’s careful and orderly and responsible and rule-bound life so much more… fun. Shawn was lovely. Full stop. Vibrant, happy, energetic. He was just fucking fun to be around.

“What’s going on?” asked Shawn, suddenly concerned. “Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Are you having a seizure?”

“Shawn.” Carlton said his name, so very slowly and carefully.

Shawn raised his brows and waited.

“Stop talking. Please.”

“Okay.”

They had been “dating” for over a year, and had known each other for much longer. Shawn would claim they were going steady in that childish, joking way of his, and that their mutual groping had progressed to under the clothes. Of course, he’d also say it with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows. He was insufferable. But at the same time, Carlton had been surprised by the adult relationship they had managed to forge out of this extremely unlikely union. Shawn was more emotionally intelligent than he often let on, and he was loyal and kind, wicked smart, affectionate, and funny as all hell. 

Carlton, on the other hand, he wasn’t entirely sure what his draw was. Shawn always said it was his blue eyes and the strong Irish hairline, whatever the hell that meant, and his commitment to public service. Then there was his chest hair, which Carlton would prefer was never, ever mentioned again. Deep down, however, Carlton knew he was lacking and he was damaged goods, in a way. Once divorced, seemingly perpetually unluckily in and out of love. Work was his hobby. Work was his life. There were other things, like the civil war reenactments, but they were few and far between.

Admittedly, Shawn had come out of nowhere, and Carlton had hated it. He’d hated Shawn, too, at first. His “psychic” schtick was intolerable. His poor judgment was equally intolerable. But Shawn was a difficult person to hate full time.

He was a difficult person to hate at all, actually, once you got to know him.

Carlton abandoned the prosecco and the cremated pineapple. He left everything for dead, because it was now or never. It felt that way, at least. Because this feeling that had speared him, right through the chest, was something so lovely and foreign and irrational, and he’d never done anything so spontaneous in his life.

It drove him to his knees, literally, right at Shawn’s side, and Shawn stared at him, all wide-eyed and alarmed and probably seconds away from dialing 911. Carlton grabbed his hand, and Shawn allowed it. Of course he would.

They stared at one another. Riveted. Blue eyes versus hazel. A battle of intentions.

“I love you,” said Carlton.

And there it was, so bald and brave. It wasn’t as if they’d never said those words to each other before, but this was different. This was with a new meaning, whatever that meaning might be. Carlton could not adequately describe it, and Shawn, for his part, seemed entirely confused.

But of course, Shawn said, automatically, “I love you, too.” He squeezed Carlton’s hand. “Are you okay? Look, I’m sorry about dinner.”

“I’m fine. You’re sorry?” Carlton kneeled there on his knees in his suit pants and said these things practically from instinct alone.

“Of course I’m sorry,” said Shawn. “I ruined dinner. Like always.”

“You never ruin dinner,” Carlton protested, strangely vehement. “You’re perfect.”

Shawn pulled away suddenly. “Oookay, Lassie-face. The drink must have gone to your head.”

“No. It didn’t.” Carlton reached out and grabbed Shawn’s hand again — hard, yet still in a gentle, Lassiterian way. Shawn had learnt that particular grade of death-grip meant he only wanted one’s complete attention. Shawn was more than willing to give it to him. “You are perfect,” Carlton went on, “and I love you a stupid, ridiculous, unadvisable amount. And I want you to marry me, if that is something you’re okay with.”

It was so sweet that Shawn felt like all of their teeth might rot out and they’d be forced to get fitted for dentures, together, as would only be appropriate.

So sweet and so unexpected.

Shawn stared at him. This was entirely unlike the Lassie he knew. He wasn’t yet convinced the man wasn’t suffering from some sort of psychotic episode, or at the very least an extreme lapse in judgment. Did he know he was speaking to Shawn? Annoyance-extraordinaire?

“I mean,” rephrased Carlton, awkwardly, as if his intention wasn’t already apparent. “Will you marry me?”

“Will you forgive me for dinner?” Shawn blurted out as a counter-offer. For some reason, that was logical for him. The charred pineapple slices stood by as stalwart witnesses, forgotten on the table.

“Of course,” said Carlton, exasperated.

“Okay then. Truth is, I like you very, very much, Lassy-frass, and I wouldn’t mind spending forever and ever with you.” Shawn smiled. “Of course I’ll marry you, Carlton. If that’s really what you want. I mean, I am… me.” He gestured vaguely at himself and then at the general mess of Carlton’s formerly neat and cautious way of life.

Somehow hearing his actual given name coming out of Shawn’s mouth, without any weird spin on it, gave Carlton a jolt. Of course he wasn’t “Lassie” all the time, but he was for a good share of it. Shawn did call him “Carlton” here and there, usually for emphasis, or when they were in bed, weirdly. But then the latter half of what Shawn was saying finally sunk in. He blinked. “You’re you, yes,” said Carlton. “That’s the point. You’re… you. I love the way you generally destroy everything you touch! But then there are those times…”

Shawn smiled broadly at that. “I’ll admit you kinda caught me off guard, which is hard to do. I’m impressed. But!” He paused for suspense. “I only have one request. Well, one of probably several, but I haven’t thought of any others yet but this one. Can you handle it?”

“Sure…?” said Carlton, voice trailing off. His brows raised.

Shawn seemed to enjoy the uncertainty on his face. “I’m hungry for something that isn’t burnt—“

“So how about we—“ Carlton interrupted, apparently eager to take this conversation elsewhere.

They were, apparently, on completely different chapters of the same book.

Shawn held up a finger. “No, Lassie. Calm down. How about…” SUSPENSE! He loved it; Carlton did not. “Fries Quatro Queso Dos Fritos! Take out. Now. And after that, you can do whatever you want to me. How’s that sound, hm?”

“At this point, I would eat those disgusting things off your naked body,” said Carlton with absolute seriousness.

“Uh, no,” said Shawn. “We’re not doing that. But it’s an interesting thought…”

And then Carlton remembered something crucial. “Uh, I don’t have a ring.” He almost divulged that this whole thing wasn’t planned, but he did not want to feed any of Shawn’s insecurities.

“Whatever. I don’t particularly care about that,” said Shawn. He leant down, just a little bit, and stole a kiss. 

It was too brief and chaste for Carlton’s liking, for this particular moment, but Shawn suddenly seemed distracted. “What’s wrong?”

“I told Gus that this would never happen,” said Shawn.  
Carlton searched Shawn’s face. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, quietly. Then, with the suddenness of a light being switched on, Shawn leapt up, jarring his hand from Carlton’s grip as he did so. He downed his prosecco and declared. “I may not care about a ring, but I do care about food. So?”

“I’ll make the call and place an order?” Carlton suggested.

Shawn grinned. “You are my favorite. Just after Gus.”

“That would make me your second favorite,” Carlton pointed out. “And last Tuesday, O’Hara was your favorite because she paid for your weird expensive coffee drink.”

“Lassie, you should know by now you shouldn’t trust a word that comes out of my mouth. And I mean that in the best way possible. Now excuse me. I think I smell fire. I may or may not have tried making s’mores on your stove top.”


	2. Chapter 2

True to schedule, Saturday was indeed for Juliet, and luckily this Saturday, the elder Spencer was out on his boat with his fish, and not so luckily, Gus was stuck at some boring weekend seminar at the Goleta office.

Shawn had already dropped the “big news” on Gus Friday morning, since they were — admittedly — attached at the hip, or at the very least, telepathically connected. In fact, Shawn had woken up early that morning and fled to Gus’ apartment for a very candid meltdown. After getting over his own surprise, Gus of course made all things better, and now after a full day of settling into the new reality, Shawn was ready to bring Juliet into the fold.

He’d chosen a beach-side pancake bar as their get-together spot. This place was a favorite haunt. It was close to downtown, open-air, open seating, and nothing but cheap all-you-can-eat pancakes for as far as the eye could see… And some sausage, as well. 

Plus, the pacific ocean.

As Juliet worked through her thick stack of Bisquick goodness, Shawn contemplated the ocean from behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. They were here early enough to beat the crowds, and he could already tell that today was going to be great. A couple dogs chased frisbees nearby. Maybe they could adopt a dog. Maybe—

“He already told me, you know,” said Juliet, chewing through a massive bite of pancake.

“Told you what?” asked Shawn.

She rolled her eyes and swallowed. “Friday. He told me. Congratulations, by the way.” She seemed genuine, her smile as sweet as the syrup that stuck to her lips.

Shawn was only slightly upset that the cat had already been let out of the bag. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he said, honestly. “And I’m… still surprised. I don’t know what he sees in me. Apart from my amazing hair and my genius intellect.”

Juliet laughed. She pushed her plate aside for a moment and leant forward. “Shawn,” she said. “You are the sweetest guy I’ve met in a long, long time. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit jealous.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say.” Shawn actually blushed.

“But I know better. It never would have worked. You and I,” Juliet went on. She didn’t seem to find the point in elaborating.

“What? Why?” asked Shawn, mildly scandalized.

“Well, I mean… you’re you.” 

“What does that mean?!”

She shrugged. “It means I love you to death, in the most friendly way possible. Maybe one time it was more than friendly, but you chose Carlton.”

“True. I’ve thoroughly been spoken for.”

They ate in silence. Shawn stood to get the both of them more pancakes. When he sat back down and poured the syrup on thick, he felt her eyes on him.

“I was always curious,” Juliet said, “about you.”

“Curious about what?”

She shrugged again. “You’re confusing.”

“You mean I’m amazing.”

“No, I mean you’re confusing. I never knew what you were after, ever. One day you would be so obviously into me, but then the next day, it was like I never existed. You do the same thing with Carlton, or at least you did, at first. You do the same thing with Gus sometimes, and your dad, too, although he mostly sees through it. You do the same thing with everybody you interact with. You charm them. You get what you want. And then you move on to whatever’s next.”

Shawn frowned. He rested his forearms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “Well that doesn’t sound very flattering.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

“I thought you said I was sweet and that you liked me?”

“You are, Shawn. And I do. You can be loyal and you can be kind. You help people with Psych, you really do. You have personality to spare. You’re funny. You exude confidence even when you have no idea what the hell you’re doing. People gravitate toward that kind of thing.” Juliet paused as she considered how to break this in the kindest, nicest way possible. “But marriage is commitment.”

“And?” Shawn asked for her to go on. He searched her face and found nothing but Juliet O’Hara-brand stone-cold determination to get through this.

“Marriage is commitment, and it’s hard work, and it’s give and take, and it’s not always fun.”

He frowned. “What are you trying to say?” Shawn already knew what she was trying to say.

“Shawn. Life with you is like a carousel of fun. Everybody is having a blast while they’re on it, going around in circles, but eventually the ride ends and they have to get off of it, and, I don’t know, do their taxes or something. Of course, they can always get back on the ride, but years pass and maybe it finally breaks down, and they discover they’ve gone nowhere.”

“I never do my taxes, Jules. Gus does all that stuff.” He was playing dumb. It was the easiest thing to do. Truth was, Juliet’s words stung like lemon on a bit lip. He was more than just a… carousel of fun. Admittedly, he was fun as hell, but come on! He could be serious if he wanted to, when he really put his mind to it, if he thought the situation warranted it—

“It was a metaphor, Shawn.” 

“How about you quit speaking in metaphors and just say what you want to say to my face?” The question was barbed. “You’re supposed to be a friend, Jules. Why tear me down when I’ve finally got something good? And believe me, Lassie is good.”

“You always have something good. That’s the thing! Everything is easy for you.”

“If you think my entire life is a cake-walk, then I guess you’ve never met my father.”

“Oh, come on, Shawn. Is that all you have? Blaming Henry for all of life’s woes?”

“I could probably blame my mother as well, but I just happen to like her better. You don’t even know the half of it.” Shawn moved to get up. “Now if you’re done insulting me, I’d prefer to leave and go do something fun with my Saturday, because apparently that’s all I’m capable of.”

“Don’t be like that.” Juliet reached out and grabbed him by the elbow. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Slowly, and maybe against his better judgment, he sat back down. He would hear her out, because she was supposed to be a friend, and Gus had told him once (countless times, actually) that he really ought to listen more and talk less.

“I’m just worried,” she admitted.

“About what?”

“About Carlton.” Juliet huffed and pushed her plate completely away. “I’m worried about Carlton. I don’t want to see him get hurt. That’s all.”

“And you’re worried I’ll do that,” said Shawn. He had a thoughtful little frown on his face as he stared now at the congealing syrup on his place.

“I just know you, Shawn. And I know Carlton—“

“I’m crazy about him, Jules,” Shawn interrupted. “I think we really… mesh. In a weird and unexpected way. And I think he’s crazy about me, too.”

“He is,” Juliet confirmed.

“I get that you’re worried; I’m worried, too. I can’t promise I won’t screw everything up. I am me, after all. But I’d like to think that I won’t.” He took his sunglasses off so she could look him in the eye. “So, do I have your blessing?”

Juliet rolled her eyes. “You give me no choice.”

“Super.” Shawn grinned widely.

She gripped his wrist then, so hard that his bones ground together. “But if you hurt him, I hurt you.”

His grin turned into a grimace. “Dang, Jules, what’s with your freakishly strong grip?!”


	3. Chapter 3

“And then she called me a ‘carousel of fun’!” Shawn exclaimed at the back of Gus’ head.

“Unbelievable,” Gus replied without really knowing what the hell Shawn was talking about.

The weekend seminar at the Goleta office had been long and an incredible waste of time. They didn’t even buy everybody lunch! Gus left at half after five and drove straight to his apartment, even though he’d promised Shawn he’d stop at the Psych office first and go over a private case they’d just been hired on. He wanted nothing more than to salvage what was left of his Saturday by putting on his pyjamas, heating up a frozen mac ’n’ cheese and watching at least three episodes of MythBusters before falling into bed.

Shawn being Shawn, of course, could not take a hint, and in retrospect, Gus should have known better. It was best practice to deal with Shawn in absolutes. If you didn’t want him to show up unannounced at your apartment, it was best to straight up tell him you needed alone time. Maybe he would listen, or maybe he would show up anyway, but at least you’d tried.

“I mean, granted,” Shawn rambled, going on in that way he only did when he was extremely bothered about something, “the term ‘carousel of fun’ could go in so many directions — other than, you know, in circles. I mean, is it a G-rated carousel or is it an R-rated carousel? I need more information!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense, Shawn,” Gus pointed out. He was eating his mac ’n’ cheese — a giant bowl of it — and watching MythBusters. This one was a veritable classic; one of the guys had to escape an overturned car that was sinking in water. Gus was a better friend than Shawn deserved. He’d turned the volume down low, because Shawn had showed up bizarrely frenetic, and Gus wasn’t quite cold enough to completely freeze him out, no matter what kind of day he’d had.

“Exactly!” cried Shawn. “You just get me, Gus. That’s why I love you.”

Gus didn’t have the heart to correct him. It was Shawn who didn’t make sense; Juliet’s ‘carousel of fun’ metaphor could actually hold some water. He took a big bite of cheesy noodles. Now this was carb-loading done right.

“She just thinks I’m getting my rocks off with Lassie and soon I’ll dump him and move on—“

“Please,” Gus lamented with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“—But I mean, if that was my aim, wouldn’t I have dumped him a long time ago? Now we’re like… a unit. We live together. We go food shopping together. He lets me drive his car. He goes to dinner at my dad’s with me. He even asked me what color he ought to paint the bathroom wall! That’s commitment, Gus.” Shawn flopped on the sofa next to Gus, so close they touched, but neither of them found that weird in the least bit. Somehow he’d gotten ahold of a fork and stuck it in the mac ’n’ bowl. He speared several noodles and ate them slowly.

Gus opened his mouth to protest, but at the look on Shawn’s face, he decided to let it go. They could share. It was, perhaps, the least he could do. Truthfully, he could understand Juliet’s argument and Shawn’s situation. Did he think Shawn was ready for marriage? Hell no. But then, who was? And Lassiter seemed decent enough, even if he was sort of a prick. And Shawn could be earnest, and he was never deliberately cruel.

“I’m committed, Gus. I’m as committed as I’ve ever been. So committed it hurts down to my core muscles because I’m working the commitment so hard.”

“What color did Lassie paint the bathroom wall?” asked Gus.

“Green,” said Shawn. “Kind of like a… sage green. It’s nice.” He paused and then let out a long sigh that turned into a dying groan. “Oh god, Gus. I really messed up.”

Gus shoved in a mouthful of noodles so he wouldn’t be expected to talk anytime soon.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what he was thinking. I can’t—“ Shawn stopped himself. Gus gave him a wary look. Shawn looked positively anguished. “I’m such an asshole, but he was so excited, and he just looked at me as if I was the only person left alive after a horrible, horrible tragedy, and I just… I really like him, I do. But now I… Marriage, it’s so… traditional. There’s all this baggage. My parents, his ex-wife — why would we even consider it?”

After finally swallowing, Gus suggested, ever level-headed, “How about you just tell him you aren’t ready yet? He knows you; he knows how you are. Maybe just have an extra, super-long engagement? He won’t think anything of it! Remember when we were in the eighth grade and somebody asked you if you wanted to be class treasurer, and you said yes right away, and then a week later you were ducking out of every meeting and pretty much misappropriating funds?”

“That’s not true, Gus,” said Shawn, scandalized. “Those were essential expenses.”

“Sure. I’m just saying, dude, come clean. Be honest about what you want and don’t want. Tell Lassie you wanna… do whatever it is you two do, but you’re not ready to seal the deal quite yet. You’re young; you don’t want to rush into anything. I don’t know. Come up with something.”

“You think Juliet was right?” asked Shawn.

“I don’t think you’d be freaking out this much if you didn’t at least think she had some sort of point,” said Gus.

Shawn huffed out a sigh. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“You know that’s right. I should start charging you for these sessions.” Gus turned MythBusters up while Shawn brooded close beside him.

Eventually Shawn began to nod off, his face pressed into Gus’ side. At this point, Gus would’ve shoved Shawn over to his own side for the sake of manliness, but for tonight, he allowed Shawn to be all clingy-octopus. Lots of people had remarked before on how strange Gus and Shawn’s friendship was, but when it came down to it, they had an unbreakable bond. A little friendly cuddling and food sharing was nothing. Even Lassie took it for what it was, although he had to demand “SCRAM!” more than once when he wanted to speak to Shawn sans Gus.

When the third episode ended all too soon, Gus nudged Shawn awake. “Hey, maybe you should get home?”

“No car,” Shawn mumbled.

Gus sighed. Of course he’d walked here. He didn’t see the bike anywhere, or Lassie’s car. “Isn’t your fiancé going to wonder where you are?” he asked, adding ‘fiancé’ for effect.

Shawn mumbled again. This time it was completely unintelligible. He burrowed even tighter against Gus’ side and made some snuffling noises.

Gus’ cell phone dinged. Text message. It was Lassiter. Great.

**Is Shawn with you? He’s not responding to me.**

He typed out a quick, neutral reply. **Yes.**

There was an even quicker response. **Is he OK?**

Gus considered that for a moment, then typed: **He’s fine. He will probably stay the night. We were going over a case and lost track of time.**

There was a pause, and then finally: **OK thank you, was worried.**

Gus set his phone aside and looked down at Shawn as he slept. “Oh, Shawn. You’re in trouble,” he said.

He went to bed, eventually, and let Shawn have the sofa. He made sure he had a pillow and a blanket, but other than that, it was up to Shawn to fend for himself.

****

“And then she called me a ‘carousel of fun’!” Shawn shouted at the back of his dad’s head.

Henry said nothing. He had gotten over Shawn’s not-quite-repressed bisexuality ages ago, back when Shawn declared he was going to the middle school dance with Danny Peters. It hadn’t even been a surprise and Henry could only shrug and scratch his head and say, ‘ok have fun, be careful, I’ll pick you up at 8PM.’

Presently, Henry was busy watching the Marlin’s game and had no desire to engage in the saga of his idiot son’s relationship with Detective Carlton Lassiter. While Henry could appreciate Shawn marrying into the police, he also scoffed at the idea of Shawn marrying into the police. Deep down, and maybe a little unfairly, he wondered what Lassiter’s damage was, if he was actually seriously interested in Shawn — and considering recent events, he was extremely interested. This had gone on for over a year, longer than Henry had ever expected.

It was Sunday afternoon. Shawn looked like he’d gone though the wars — all messy hair and raccoon eyes and smelling a little less than fresh — but he’d actually knocked on his door before walking through it, so Henry promised to give him the benefit of the doubt this time.

“I mean, granted, ‘carousel of fun’ could go in so many directions—“

“Whoa, whoa, kiddo. Carousels go in one direction.” Henry held up one finger. Shawn fixed his eyes on it. Henry then made it go around in a circle. “Around and around in circles. Pretty sure that’s a fact you’ll have to deal with.”

Shawn stared at his dad’s face. “Whose side are you on?” he accused.

Henry sighed. It pained him to admit it. “Your side, Shawn. I wish you endless happiness, as always.”

“You’re just making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Henry defended himself. “I’m just… skeptical. Of everything that has to do with you.”

“Lassie seems obscenely sure that he wants me,” said Shawn.

“And I’m glad. Really.” Henry turned his attention back on the game. He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t want to be bothered with this. “But I know you, Shawn, and I think you know better yourself. So try not to be an idiot. I know that’s hard, but all the same… try.”

Shawn clucked his tongue with a mumbled “great talk!” and settled in to take a snooze on Henry’s old sofa. He didn’t notice his cell phone buzz.

Henry eyed his kid before letting him be to watch the game. Shawn was Shawn was Shawn. He just hoped for once Shawn would think this thing through.

An hour came and went, and Henry’s phone gave a little jingle. Text Message. It was Lassiter. Great.

**Is Shawn with you?**

Henry stared at it before typing, haltingly: **Yes. He’s fine. Taking a nap.**

A pause. Then, from Lassiter: **Tell him to go home.**

Another pause. Then Lassiter texted again: **If you could, please.**

Henry chuckled to himself. **Sure.**

Then: **He has my car.**

Of course Shawn took the man’s car. With another chuckle, Henry let Shawn sleep another hour.


	4. Chapter 4

“—And that was when you, because you’re just OH! SO! smart, decided it was time to move some money around and throw off the hounds, one in particular—”

Shawn was in the midst of shouting out one of his trademark ‘reveals.’ It was too loud and too dramatic, which was pure Shawn Spencer style, and it made Lassiter roll his eyes and cross his arms tight against his chest and feel a decent amount of vicarious embarrassment. It didn’t help that Shawn pointed right at him and gave him a brief, penetrating look that made him feel like he’d forgot to put clothes on this morning.

“—But that’s where it all went wrong. See, you may be smart, Janet—“

“Her name is Linda,” said Juliet, ever helpful. She watched the performance with a raised brow and a hand on her hip. Two uniformed cops beside her looked on in bemused wonder. The lead subject — Linda, not Janet — was livid. She looked about ready to leap over several chairs, grab Shawn from the table he stood on, and strangle him with his own shoelaces. He often had that effect on people.

“You may be smart, Linda,” Shawn corrected, without even missing a beat. “But you’re looking at smarter and a helluva lot more psychic-er, who is, yes, yours truly, right here! AND—“ He gestured vaguely at Carlton, Juliet, and the two uniformed officers. “—Santa Barbara’s finest, including the lovely Detective Juliet O’Hara and the even lovelier Detective Carlton Lassiter—“

“Spencer!” Carlton barked, voice booming in the enclosed space of the non-profit office’s dingy boardroom. “Let’s wrap it up!”

Gus cleared his throat in a way that made everybody look at him. Okay, maybe he’d been too heavy on the eh-hem. He’d been mostly unnoticed for the past ten minutes, which was the way he preferred it while Shawn flailed around and made a fool out of himself. “Shh, Lassie,” he said quickly before he chickened out. “Talking disrupts the magic.”

Carlton stared at him in disbelief.

Gus shrugged and gestured at him to keep his attention on Shawn. (While on the inside, he was screaming at himself to run! run! run! because Lassiter was terrifying.)

“Thank you, Gus!” said Shawn. “Now where was I?”

Carlton scowled. Shawn grinned. This was a game Shawn clearly loved to play.

“Oh, that’s right!” He picked up where he left off. “Upon reviewing your bank statements, we found that you funnelled all that dirty money through a charity. This charity. The charity where you, conveniently, volunteer as a bookkeeper. Your philandry—“

The room made a collective ‘that’s not right’ face, including Lisa, who’s face also perfectly conveyed, ‘I can’t believe I’m about to be taken down by this weirdo.’ Shawn looked at Gus for help.

“You mean, ‘philanthropy,’” said Gus.

“Yes! Your philanthropy—“ he made sure to articulate all the syllables, “—it was all a front. Your image… a dirty lie! Dirty like your money.”

“It wasn’t all a lie!” Linda shouted back at him. She was short and stout and wore a creased grey pantsuit with dog hair stuck at the knees, and her dark hair was cut in a bob, but it was a little uneven, like she’d done it herself. Her anger had now boiled over into tears. They slid down her cheeks, smearing mascara and foundation and creating a disturbing amalgam of blotchy skin and rage. “We did good work! I did good work!”

“Tell that to the dead janitor, Brenda!”

“Shawn, he’s actually not dead,” Juliet said. “He’s in stable condition.”

Shawn blinked before promptly opening his mouth again. “Tell that to the janitor who’s still alive, apparently, Brenda!” he amended. “That’s great news,” he mouthed at Juliet.

“My name is Linda!” Linda screamed. “And I never meant to hurt him. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

“Book ‘em, Lasso!”

“Oh, may I?” Carlton asked, sarcasm dripping from the question as he and Juliet worked together to cuff Linda. Juliet read the woman her rights, and she did not attempt to resist, content with glaring at Shawn, the irritating and ridiculous and idiotic cause of her unlucky downfall. Carlton gestured at the uniformed officers. “Get her out of here.” The two lurched forward, eager.

Shawn leapt off the table, tripped over his own feet, righted himself and said, “I’m okay!”

Gus grabbed his arm. “Dude, let’s get out of here. That lady looks like she wants to flay you alive, grill your flesh, and then serve it at an office luncheon.”

“Wow, Gus! That’s unusually graphic. Are you okay? But since you brought it up, I think, if she did decide to flay me alive and grill my flesh, she’d probably feed me to all the dogs she…“ Shawn trailed off. His eyes followed Linda as the uniforms began to lead her past them. He threw his hand to his temple and cried out in pain. “Ah! I’m getting something. It’s… it’s something!”

Carlton and Juliet spoke simultaneously: “For gods sake, Spencer, what now?” said Carlton. “What is it, Shawn?” said Juliet.

Shawn looked at Linda, and Linda looked back at him, impassive.

“There’s something else,” he began, cryptically. Before Carlton could yell at him again, Shawn went on, “I see now what you were trying to do. Alberta… I never took you for the Robin Hood type, yet here you are. You stole from the rich and gave it to the dogs. The money we couldn’t account for, it went to the dogs, didn’t it? I mean, actual dogs. You run a rescue. There’s at least one Shetland Sheepdog. It likes attention. Follows you everywhere.”

“How did you know?” asked Linda. Her anger gave way to honest curiosity. She didn’t even comment on being called Alberta. “I was so careful.”

“I recommend a lint brush,” said Shawn. Then he pointed at his head again. “And… I’m a psychic.”

She cracked, with an agonised wail: “It was for the dogs! You’re right! It was all for the dogs!” And on and on it went.

“Get her out of here!” Carlton repeated at a roar.

The uniforms rushed her out.

“And you…” he turned toward Shawn and stepped into his space. Gus backed away, happy to let Shawn face the wrath.

Shawn looked up at Carlton and grinned. “And me, Lassie? I, too, love dogs. I love them very much. Maybe cut Yolanda a break? Also, maybe we should get a dog? It’s so lonesome in the house when you’re not there…”

“No,” Carlton said right away.

“No?” Shawn had that look on his face, cajoling and sweet but deceptive. It was the same look he got when he really, really, really wanted to do something and he knew somebody was going to tell him ‘no’ but he was probably going to end up doing it anyway, damn the consequences.

Carlton hated that look as much as he loved it, and standing so close to Shawn, he could smell him, too: discount laundry detergent and sunshine and some annoying brand-name aftershave that seemed superfluous since his face always looked like it hadn’t seen a razor within the past 24 hours. And no, Carlton wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘sunshine,’ but maybe it was coconut suntan lotion, or absurdly expensive hair gel, or just the fact that Shawn always smelt inexplicably good, even after eating his own weight in tacos (and then he smelt like cilantro and lime and salsa verde), and he was always so smiley and happy, like sunshine — NO. He needed to stop. This was ridiculous. This wasn’t right. He definitely needed to stop.

He wanted to kiss that smile off his face. Right here. Right in this moment. Full on the lips, with feeling. But he, fortunately and unlike Shawn, had self-control, and Gus and Juliet were warily looking on, as if they fully expected something inappropriate to happen.

Shawn’s grin turned into a smirk. He knew.

“Absolutely not,” Carlton said, “No pets,” but then he softened it with: “But good work.” He patted Shawn awkwardly on the shoulder. “Good work everybody,” he said to the mostly empty room. The praise was so shocking that the words hung around for longer than necessary.

Shawn looked around the empty boardroom. Nope. Nobody else here but him and Gus and Jules. Juliet shrugged. Gus looked more than ready to leave. He kept checking his watch and gazing longingly at the door.

Carlton nodded, then he turned around and left.

“I guess that’s my cue,” said Juliet. “We rode in together.” She paused and considered Shawn, her eyes narrowed in thought. “You have him wrapped around your finger. How do you do it?”

“I’m not sure you want to know,” said Shawn.

Juliet made a face.

“ _None_ of us want to know!” Gus added.

“O’Hara!” Carlton shouted from down the hallway. “I need coffee and Tylenol and I have neither right now! Hurry up!”

She gave Shawn one last look before she hurried out the door, heels clacking loudly against the dated vinyl floors.

He called out after her. “Don’t be jealous, Jules! I know you wanted a ride on this carousel, but—“

“Shawn, if you finish that thought, I will slap you in the face. Oh, and by the way, you’re buying me lunch.”

***

Gus was already elbow-deep in a shared pile of buffalo hot wings, but Shawn barely managed to half-heartedly eat one before he gave it up for other activities, like methodically ripping apart a napkin into teeny-tiny napkin-shards. Wing Wednesday was out of control; at least one of them was enjoying it.

“Not hungry?” Gus asked, finally managing to fit some conversation in between wings.

“Not particularly,” said Shawn.

“You seemed fine an hour ago,” said Gus.

“Yeah, well, Linda was no great mystery.”

Shawn losing his appetite was as rare as Shawn actually buying lunch. In other words, exceedingly rare. Gus’s used and abused Discover card could attest to this. And so, Gus raised a brow and decided to push, “So… have you talked to Lassiter yet? About… you know.”

“No,” Shawn admitted sullenly. Rip. Rip. Rip. He tore the bits of napkin into even smaller bits.

“Has he brought it up again?”

“No.”

Rip. Rip. Rip.

“You should eat something.” Gus grabbed another wing and stripped it in a record three seconds.

“I can’t, Gus. I feel like I might projectile vomit from sheer nerves alone. Isn’t that lame? Look at me, a basket case. A casualty of love. It’s so not me.”

“It’s not like you’re breaking it off with him. You’re just… re-claiming some space. Saying, hey, wait. Pump the brakes. You know, you’re just… not getting married before you’re 100% on the getting-hitched wagon. If anything, it’s one of the more responsible choices you’ve ever made in your life, Shawn.”

“Gee. Thanks. You really know how to talk me up.” Shawn huffed. Rip. Rip. Rip. He needed a new napkin.

“You need another napkin?” Gus asked. He slid one over.

“Yes.” Rip. Rip. Rip. Shawn went on, “My life is now like a badly written telenovela.”

“Aren’t most of them badly written?”

“You wound me, Gus. Deep down.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Maybe I’ll make him dinner again,” said Shawn.

“Isn’t that how you got into this mess in the first place?”

“It’s not a mess,” Shawn defended himself — and Lassiter by extension. “It’s… complicated. I’m complicated. Lassie is complicated. Oh my god is he complicated.”

“Heh.” Gus chewed furiously. He wished they could talk about something else. Anything else.

“I know it makes you uncomfortable, buddy. I’ll refrain.”

There was something seriously wrong with Shawn. “What's wrong with you?” Gus asked. He stopped eating. This was a candid question. Serious. “Is it just about getting married or is it something else?”

Shawn shrugged. He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, he sounded resigned. “I’m going to screw this up, buddy. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”

“Why? You both seem fine.”

“Because it’s me. And I ruin everything, eventually.”

***

Juliet watched Carlton from the corner of her eye as they drove back to the station. She asked with honest curiosity, “Does that headache tend to fade the further away you get from him?”

He chuckled, a low grumble that seemed to get stuck in his throat. With a small cough, he said, “Good one, O’Hara.” He eased the sedan onto the highway.

“I guess I don’t understand how you make it work. I mean, between home and work and everything. You put on the same gruff act whenever Shawn and Gus work a case with us. Isn’t it hard to maintain?”

“No, because it’s not an act,” he answered simply.

“So… do you shout at him and push him around at home, too?” She had her eyebrows knit together in that ‘I’m concerned but skeptical’ way of hers.

“Of course not!” Carlton said. He gave Juliet a sharp look before concentrating back on the road. “Look. Just because Shawn and I are in a relationship doesn’t mean he's any less annoying and obnoxious and an affront to the holy shrine that is good police work. God help me, I… like him a lot, but he needs reining in. Can you imagine the chaos if I let him do whatever he wanted?”

Juliet would be the first to admit she did not understand the relationship between Shawn and her partner. Granted, she knew that Shawn was charming and he was fun and spontaneous. And she knew that Carlton was loyal and he was responsible and disciplined and probably had a credit score that was consistently above 800. She just couldn’t figure out what drew them together, how they intersected and how they kept it going. It couldn’t just be the sex. Or maybe it was.

She really did not want to know.

“You’re right,” said Juliet. “He needs a firm hand.” She forced her face into a look of absolute seriousness, even though she wanted to double over and guffaw.

“Keep laughing,” said Carlton darkly.

***

After Gus dropped him off at home and shrugged off an invite to watch TV, Shawn decided to take a nap. He didn’t wake up until something gently nudged his head. He jerked unwillingly into consciousness.

“Hey, you okay?” the bedroom walls asked him.

Shawn blinked. The lamp was turned on, and the window was dark. He squinted up at the dark shape standing over the bed. Eventually, he could focus on a dark jacket and a red tie, and then, finally, a familiar face. “What time’s it?” he asked groggily.

“Nearly seven,” Carlton answered. He sat on the bed beside Shawn and kept looking down on him.

Shawn felt like an insect under scrutiny. “Oh shit. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” He ran his hands down his oily and unshaven face. Then he blinked as Carlton put a hand on his forehead. He shied away, looking suspiciously at his boyfriend’s hand.

“Are you okay?” Carlton repeated.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Shawn asked.

Carlton manoeuvred himself on the bed so that he was lying on his back on top of the covers, fully clothed, and staring at the ceiling. The fan was on, spinning around and around. If his eyes followed it closely enough, he could tell that it needed to be dusted. “I worry,” he admitted.

It was so quiet, Shawn almost missed it. From here, he could only see Carlton’s face in profile. His brow, the prominence of his nose, his lips and chin. He saw the way he held his hands loosely clasped on his belly. Shawn rolled over and pressed his face into the side of Carlton’s neck. He breathed there, making the skin hot and damp. He threw an arm over Carlton’s chest and clung to him.

“Ugh, stop drooling on me.” Carlton turned his face away and grimaced.

“You like it,” said Shawn, voice muffled. “You love my drool. Let me love you.”

“Fine.” Carlton let him cling, and eventually he turned his head and he could just barely kiss Shawn on the top of his head. Shawn was already breathing deeply, as if he’d fallen asleep again. Carlton didn’t want to move and disturb him. Maybe he could take a nap, too. Leave the lamp on, leave his clothes on. With Shawn’s breath whuffling softly near his ear and the clickity-clickity of the ceiling fan and the perfect near quiet of the bedroom. He let his eyes drift shut. He could take a nap at seven p.m. if he wanted to.


End file.
